Ethiopia

AYE, lift the sword that once in Pompey’s hand
Carved from the south the granaries of Rome,
And let old Tiber, rolling in his sand,
Bear to the sea an even angrier foam.
Now is a darkness gathered on the deep,
And all the winds are hurrying to war;
The thrush of peace is silent in her sleep,
The lark of liberty will sing no more.
O Ethiopia, O lonely ground,
Where lies the lion of your freedom now?
The vultures gather with a greedy sound,
Alert and hungry on the empty bough.
Awake, you poets! Drowsy-headed throng —
If freedom dies, you will not sleep for long!